


Just A Bloody Monster

by Lightspeed



Series: Monstrous Intent [16]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Angst, Crying, Kissing, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Post-Coital Cuddling, Scents & Smells, Self-Esteem Issues, Smoking, Unrequited Love, Werewolf!Demoman, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 17:09:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1656062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightspeed/pseuds/Lightspeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following an evening of sex and blissful pretending he might have something more than he does with Sniper, Demoman reflects on why he’s a fool for falling in love with the man who anticipates every full moon with bated breath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just A Bloody Monster

It was in the quiet moments that he could almost forget everything. When the blue-greys of the post-dusk twilight cast spreading, creeping shadows across the dried, cracked earth. When the sun's retreat had left a chill in its wake, building and slithering through every crack on the whipping winds across the sand. When, in the afterglow of two warm bodies tangled together, sweaty, Demoman would lay his head on Sniper's chest and watch his fingers tickle through the fluffy hair there. He felt the slim assassin beneath him shift, and heard the tell-tale strike of a lighter and metal click of it shutting as Sniper took a drag.

The crisp, soft crackle of paper and tobacco burning met his ears even as smoke filled his nose, blotting out the scents of sex and pheromones hanging in the humid air of the cramped camper van. He buried his face in Sniper's chest, inhaling deeply to make up for it, taking in the bushman's smell, drowning himself in that perfect aroma and losing himself.

Sniper's belly shook with silent laughter at the sound of the Scot's gentle snuffling, and fingers began scratching through his short, tight curls.

"Gettin' a scent of me, mate?"

Demoman took a last sniff and fell silent, a little embarrassed. He usually tried to keep any lupine instincts to a minimum, but Sniper's smell was one he needed. He smelled of the desert and the dust, of sweat and sex, of softness and comfort, with bare traces of laundry soap and leather from his clothes. He smelled of gun oil, of tobacco, of unwashed sheets choked with his musk. He smelled of semen and lubricant, of saliva and hunger. And atop it all, Demoman's scent lingered on his skin. The bushman smelled like him. He was his territory.

At least, for now, in this quiet moment, he was.

"It's alright, mate. I know you like it," Sniper assured him, realizing he'd caught him guilty. "I'm done with me smoke anyway." Exhaling one last drag, the bushman stubbed out his cigarette and flicked it aside, letting his hand come to rest on Demoman's back, rubbing slow circles against his warm, sweat-tacky skin.

A soft sigh escaped Demoman, falling to his cheek atop Sniper's belly, looking up at the reclining assassin over the field of dark hair standing along his torso. He felt the rise and fall of his breath, watched his adam's apple bob as he swallowed, and smiled against his skin.

"Aye, thanks," he mumbled, pressing a kiss to that flat, fuzzy belly. The gentle squeeze of his shoulder in return only produced more lazy kisses, until, realizing what he was really doing, Demoman stopped.

He could almost forget. But no matter the scent, Sniper wasn't his.

 

With a grunt, Demoman set down his tools, staring accusatorily at the bomb he was working on. How in the hell was he supposed to bloody concentrate on anything when the smell of that wiry Australian was all over him?

He loved that smell, loved having it on him, loved the way his clothes held onto the scent and how it told him again and again the story of the hungry, slow, passionate love they made in that camper van the night previous. Of Sniper's teeth on his shoulder, of his wide-blown pupils and bright blue eyes. Of warm skin pressed together and nails dragging down it. Of gasps and whines, pleading and praise.

Demoman drained the remainder of his bottle of scrumpy. He'd been toking off the thing steadily for the past hour, trying to sauce those beautiful memories out of his skull and focus on his job. How could he focus when all he could think about was how beautiful Sniper sounded when their tongues and bodies were intertwined? His mind kept straying to the marks he suckled into the rangy assassin's neck and how every time their lips parted, he wanted to chase Sniper's with whispered, "I love you"s.

He'd almost said it so many times.

Glass shattered in a wet hail of shards as Demoman pitched his scrumpy bottle at the nearest wall, a snarl on his lip.

I love you.

He began to pace, stalking about his workshop as if the motion would bring him clarity. Certainly, the moving air helped bring him a reprieve from Sniper's lingering scent, which he was loath to part ways with for even a moment.

It was so hard not to say it, but he knew it would be even harder if he let it slip. He shouldn't. It would complicate everything. The words would hang in the air like an offending odor, Sniper would make some excuse, and be gone, never again to lie in his arms. It was only reasonable that something like that would complicate things, would scare him away. Sniper had come to him for sex, nothing more. He hadn't even known who the mystery monster was. He was simply a werewolf, and Sniper had fancied he'd bed one. He'd never meant to get involved. He'd never wanted to. He was there for a shag, not a relationship. His monsters were a fun diversion, a kink, and nothing else.

It had been Demoman who, waking in the morning from a short post-coital nap, had asked the bushman if they could do this again.

Even while The Wolf was away.

Sniper had said yes, and they'd rutted not as man and beast, but simply men, sweating and striving with hot skin and crashing lips. But when they were no longer bathed in afterglow, The Wolf sprang right back to the bushman's tongue. He'd had questions, ideas, and plans for the next full moon.

"How much control do you 'ave? Do you think I could get you to use that tongue of yours, or am I just luck you don't rip me limb from limb? Would you have enough control to pull out for the finish if you didn't have the knot in me? Any chance I could blow you or is that askin' for trouble? Definitely goin' to need to prep more next time, but knowin' what I'm up against helps quite a lot."

Certainly he was excited; how could Demoman blame him? After all, here, he had regular access to fulfilling his exotic, dangerous kink. Why wouldn't he be excited. The man was like a kid on Smissmas, except his new toy was a werewolf's prick in his arse.

It had been then that he'd realized that Sniper was only in it for the sex, fucking around with him as a courtesy in anticipation of the next transformation. He was paying his dues while waiting for The Wolf. Sex was nice, regular sex more so, but it was just a courtesy in pursuit of bigger, more dangerous things.

It didn't bother him back then. At least, he told himself it didn't. It was a mild annoyance, the chafe of dismissal when Sniper would bring up the change and how completely enthralled he was with the fur and the teeth and the knotted cock all bearing down on him. But in the end, that's all it had been. A mild annoyance.

He'd been content to have a fuck buddy and, for once, a friend he could trust with his secret. It was freeing for there to be someone out there not named DeGroot who knew what he was, and was entirely okay with it. Who thought no less of him. Who didn't fear or revile him simply for the consequences of his birth. There was security there, in that trust.

But then something changed. Somewhere during those sweaty days and nights tangled in sheets and one another in the van, and the cozy nights stretched out in Demoman's quarters, he'd fallen for the barmy Aussie. His heart had clamped down on rational thought and suddenly he felt a flutter in his chest when he smiled down at the supine assassin as their hips rolled in concert. He was warm and safe in long, gangly arms as they lay together in the quiet and comfort of their mutual satisfaction. He wanted to be around him every minute of every day. Suddenly the sun rose so he could look on Sniper in the light of day, setting to allow for the chill of the desert night to bring warm bodies close, so that he might see the treacherous moon's light reflected in the bushman's eyes. Though his mind said otherwise, his heart said Sniper was his. The Wolf inside couldn't help but agree.

That's what made Sniper's expeditions to go hunt down and get naughty with other monsters so infuriating. Demoman knew he was going to continue with it. He had always done it, and wasn't expected to deviate, but every time, he worried more and more that Sniper wouldn't return. Respawn had a range, and after the first time Sniper had returned to base bruised, half-drowned and smelling of rusalka, the Scot hadn't been able to handle the story of near-death in spite of sexual satisfaction. If the idiot was going to risk permanent death, then Demoman would be there to be his guard dog, no matter how jealous it made him. No matter how much he couldn't stand the scent of others on the assassin's skin. Because what would he do if he lost him?

How _pathetic_. Lovesick and possessive over someone who wasn't even his. The last prince of the Highland Demoman, laid low by the bass tones of a gunman's growl. He was a sad piece of work.

With a sob, Demoman sank to the floor to lean against a nearby crate in his misery. His forehead pressed heavy against the dry, rough wood, and with a heave of his chest, he felt heat in his cheeks and moisture prick at his eye. The liquor roiling in his veins made the world wobble and toss, and dizzy, he shut his eye, welcoming the darkness and forcing the tears that had welled there to roll down his face in fat droplets.

They came freely, the tears. His head bowed, body crumpled in on itself. Shaking sobs wracked his body and shook his ribs as his teeth grit so hard his jaw ached. He breathed between them anyway, hissing and whimpering shaky breaths.

He was daft, so daft, to think he could ever have anything more. Anyone. He was a one-eyed bloody monster, a werewolf, and a drunk. He was a novelty. Something interesting to catch for a shag, not a lover, or a boyfriend, or a husband.

Nothing more.


End file.
